Outcast Again
by KekuleSalvador
Summary: 'He's too thin and too pale. The torn aviator's jacket he's had since he was ten hangs off him.' The Giant war is over and Nico di Angelo is once again an outcast.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians or Heros of Olympus, if I did, Pico is the ship that would be sailing not Percabeth. **

**Warnings: Language, mentions of self-harm, hints at mental health issues and eating disorders. General dark angsty stuff. Possibly slash in later chapters if I continue with it. **

He's too thin and too pale. The torn aviator's jacket he's had since he was ten hangs off him. It was too big back then; it used to drown him. He's grown since, but only upwards, if the hem hadn't come undone long ago, the jacket would barely reach the top of his jeans. If anyone saw him now, idly kicking an empty coke can down the street, tangled hair hidden beneath a black hood, they'd think him far too young to be out at this hour. They might be right. The yellow of the street lamps is barely enough to cut through the winter darkness. His small frame, the tiny amount of pale skin visible beneath his hood, the dejected way he carries himself, makes those few people who follow their hearts stop for a moment, an offer of help on the tips of their tongues. Then they see his eyes, glaring from beneath curtains of dark hair. In the shadow of the hair and the hood, those eyes seem to be pitch black. Shattered glass, it could, in another person, invite pity. In this boy it only elicits fear. Because the broken glass lets people see the insanity once contained behind it. Any mortal who sees those eyes bites back the kind words and crosses the street, a shiver running down their spine.

In truth, Nico di Angelo is glad they walk away without a word. He doesn't want their pity. Besides, the coke can he's been kicking rolls down the road and he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, he'd only bring monsters to their door. Gaia might have been returned to her comatose state, but by no means did that stop monsters plaguing demigods the same as they had done for millennia. Nobody with enough of a heart to open their door to a scruffy fifteen-year-old with nowhere to go deserved to have that kind of trouble. Fortunately for them, the insanity staring out of his dark eyes scared them off before the monsters had a chance. Because Nico isn't yet so far gone that he would turn down an offer if it came his way.

Nico hunches his shoulders and veers off to the left, cliché as it was, he'd rather sleep under a park bench than by the side of the road. To say he has nowhere to go isn't entirely true. Nico finds his bench and sits down, staring blankly at the trees opposite, eyes flitting around constantly on edge. He knew that if he was to turn up on Sally Jackson's doorstep she'd let him in, he'd thought of doing just that on more than one occasion. Especially on nights like tonight, when it was bitterly cold and the empty ache in his stomach was almost unbearable. But he couldn't. He couldn't because he couldn't face the questions he'd been avoiding since the end of the giant war. There were things he couldn't stand reliving, there were problems he'd rather leave buried than face and there were ways of coping he didn't want to let go of. Not just yet anyway.

He bites his lip, draws his knees into his chest and scowls into the darkness, almost waiting for some creature or other to emerge from it and attempt to devour him. The sword digging uncomfortably into his hip is waiting to be used. It was a miracle he ever slept at all. Nico slides a hand into his pocket and withdraws the flick knife he keeps there. He stares at it tiredly, wondering if this was really something he wanted to do. It's more of an addiction than anything now. It stops him thinking. Night-time is the worst for that. In the darkness his nightmares seem that much closer. He can feel harsh hands curling around his shoulder; feel his scars burning as they had when they were freshly inflicted. Once he'd considered the shadows friends. Now they leered at him, mocking him, reminding him how weak he was. Too weak to set foot back in Hades. So afraid of the pit of Tartarus he didn't dare return to the place he'd once, grudgingly, called home.

In the darkness a shimmering something moves. Nico tenses, his hand moving for his sword, legs unfurling to rest on the concrete path. The shimmering white thing moves closer, solidifying as it does. Nico closes his fist around the knife in his hand. "Go back where you belong. You don't have permission to walk this earth again." He draws the stygian iron sword from his belt and glares at the ghost before him. "I am Nico di Angelo, prince of the underworld and I command you to go. Now." The ghost stares back before throwing back her head and laughing. The half-familiar sound sets Nico's teeth on edge. He closes his eyes, trying to force himself to think clearly. This isn't Hazel. It can't be Hazel; his half-sister had earned Elysium closing the doors of death. He opened his eyes, the glare contorting his face further. "You're not Hazel. Hazel is in Elysium. You don't have power over me Melinoe. Go." The bite in his voice is vicious enough to draw blood. But ghosts don't bleed.

Ghost-Hazel tilts her head to one side "I couldn't rest Nico." She straightens her head and stares at him through sad eyes. Nico tries to back away, forgetting the bench behind him and falls into it. "You brought me back just to betray me and let me die again." Nico curls back onto the bench and shakes his head hard.

"Hazel I didn't. I didn't. You deserved so much more than Asphodel, that's why I brought you back. I never meant to….Hazel I didn't…." He squeezes his eyes shut, he doesn't want to see her, but there's nothing he can say. Because he can't deny that she's right. Ghost-Hazel knows this.

"You did." He can feel her cold fingers on his arm, a mockery of the way she'd comforted him after they'd found him. "You betrayed all of us. Then you hid it, you fed us your lies and your half-truths." Although he doesn't look, he knows Hazel is beside him; he takes a breath and shakes his head.

"Shut up Melinoe. Go and haunt mortals like you're supposed to and leave me the fuck alone." There's that soft laugh again, that laugh that sounds so much like Hazel's nervous giggle it makes him look back up. But Hazel's laugh didn't have the cruel edge that this one does.

"It's me Nico, you know it is. Melinoe doesn't know what you did, how could she?" There is an unfamiliar accusatory tone in Ghost-Hazel's voice. Nico can't look away from the sad, disappointed expression she's wearing. It is Hazel, right down to the little dimple on her cheek. "She doesn't know how you nearly lost us the giant war. She doesn't know that you kept the Gates of Death wedged open and told the giants everything they needed to know to tear us apart." Ghost-Hazel's voice is trembling. Nico wants to look away from her, but her pale eyes have locked onto his and he can't. "This is your fault Nico," Sadness fills bother her voice and her face. She's not angry with him, she's hurt. He has hurt her beyond anything else she's ever suffered and he knows it. Ghost-Hazel carries on in her soft broken voice "it's your fault Leo burned Frank. You abandoned me. All that time you were lost I was so afraid of losing you. But in the end you never really cared did you?"

Gritting his teeth, Nico snaps, he manages to pull his eyes from her and run across the grass through the trees. "Shutupshutupshutup." The mantra accompanies his pounding feet. Eventually, when dizziness and nausea threaten to overwhelm him Nico stops running and drops to the ground beneath an old horse-chestnut tree. She's gone. Panting, Nico tries to catch his breath, tries to stop Hazel's words from ringing in his ears. He unclenches his fist, the knife still there. Flicking it open, he draws it slowly across his wrist, watching the blood ooze from beneath the silver blade. His breathing starts to slow down. It wasn't Hazel. It had to have been Melinoe. No matter what she said, Nico knew that it was her business to know the memories of all the ghosts. Of course she would know what had happened. What he'd done.

There is another possibility. As the knife opens up a second gash on his goose-pimpled arm, the unbidden thought crosses his mind. She could have been a hallucination. Nico doesn't want to admit it but deep down he knows it wouldn't be the first time his tortured imagination has played tricks on him. He shakes his head; he doesn't want to think about that right now. He doesn't want to start wandering down the path of how fucked up he is.

His stomach growls uncomfortably. Nico lowers the knife, returning it to his pocket and fumbles to adjust already bloodied bandages. Pulling them over the fresh cuts and leaving the half healed ones exposed to the irritation of his jumper sleeves. He finds his thoughts meandering back to Percy. Or more specifically, that time all those years ago when he'd turned up on Percy's fire-escape and had blue birthday cake. Blue cake would be better than ambrosia right now. In fact, if he had any ambrosia left Nico is pretty sure it would taste like blue birthday cake. Besides, the cake was sweet enough that it probably wouldn't taste too bad when….Nico shakes his head hard and drags his attention back to the bandages. _That_ new development is another thing he's got on his ever growing list of 'things not to think about'. Something else he'd rather keep buried in his own mental Tartarus. Besides, his brain uselessly informed him, it was late November, closer to Christmas than Percy's birthday. Nico leans back against the tree, momentarily side-tracked into wandering what Percy had even done for his birthday this year. Probably he'd spent it with Annabeth, Tyson, Leo, Jason and all his other friends and admirers.

Unfortunately, just like the physical Tartarus, the metaphorical version had the power to drag him in if he strayed too close. ADHD didn't mix well with depression, although he could be distracted, he could just as easily have his distraction redirected back to the dangerous depths close to Tartarus. He doesn't he want to think about what Percy would say to him, they've barely spoken since the end of the giant war. Percy's been busy with Annabeth and Nico has been avoiding everyone since the truth had come to the surface. Not that anyone had said it directly. But the giants had been able to keep the Doors of Death open despite Thanatos being unchained. They'd been able to tap into the power of the underworld. The unspoken 'where did they get that knowledge from?' was answered just as silently. Nico di Angelo, the kidnapped son of Hades really had betrayed them all. Well, he had a history of lying and betrayals, it hadn't been hard to believe. So he'd left camp days after their return, having stayed just long enough to at least partially heal from everything that had happened.

Nico shakes his head, trying to pull himself up out of the memories. He's straying far too close to the dark pit in his mind. The pit that is responsible for the insanity threatening to burst from behind his eyes. He looks around him, the shivers from his encounter with Hazel tip-toeing down his spine once again. Sleep is beckoning to him, he's beyond exhausted, but he doesn't want to face the nightmares waiting behind his closed eyelids. Besides, he's freezing. Even under the jumper and his jacket he's shivering, November is harsh. If he'd thought about it earlier he might have shadow travelled somewhere warmer. The thing is he doesn't like how weak shadow travel makes him these days. He doesn't trust himself not to collapse for a week like he had the first time he'd tried it. He doubts the monsters would be so lenient on him this time around.

The urge to find Percy creeps up on him again. Even if just to have someone who knows what it means to have Tartarus bound to yours soul. Percy is still a much better person than he is. Nico has known that for a long time. Since he forgave Percy for Bianca's death he's known that the son of the Sea God is far more moral, far stronger and just simply _better_ than he will ever be. He'd gotten over that. At least he had, until the events of the Giant war had made him fall lower still in comparison to Percy. Now it almost hurts just thinking about him. Because really, what has Nico been through that Percy hasn't? Percy wasn't hiding from who he was, living in the shadows on the streets because his problems are too big and scary to face. Percy, as far as Nico knew, didn't slit his own skin open for release or stick his fingers down his throat just to feel some semblance of control.

No, Nico thinks, he does not want to see Percy. He doesn't need to be reminded of how pathetic he is by comparison. Hunching his shoulders he shivers, he can see black dots jumping around his vision when he moves his head now. He closes his eyes just to stop the falling sensation. Falling is a new fear; one he's had ever since Tartarus pulled him down into its depths. Once his eyes are shut his body starts shutting down slowly, giving into its exhaustion. For a moment he's tempted to fight it, but he knows it's futile. Besides, if he stays awake it will only mean chasing his thoughts round in circles for longer. It's not long before sleep drags him under.

Light filters through the bronze, dancing across his eyelids. Teasing him. All the pomegranate seeds have been devoured. He knows nobody is coming for him. Perhaps they'd already worked out that this was a trap. He can hear screams still; they echo around his oxygen starved mind. So many people have died just feet above him. He can feel their anguished souls; Melinoe's ghosts, as they relived their ancient torture time after time. The air is running out, even in this suspended state, drawing the slowest, shallowest breaths possible, Nico knows he's using the last of the oxygen. He knows he doesn't have much longer. This isn't a hero's death.

Eyelids jerk open, Nico draws in a huge lungful of air and shudders. He hates those nightmares, hates how he never sees the end. Beneath him the grass is damp with morning dew. The first mortals will be out with their dogs soon, it's time for him to move again. Slowly Nico pushes himself to his feet, his joints clicking as he does so and a soft groan escaping his chapped lips. Leaning against the tree as a familiar wave of dizziness floods over him, he waits for his vision to clear. The cuts on his wrist are throbbing, his back aches and he's surprised his jelly-like legs have managed to hold him up for this long. Another day. Another day filled with just as much nothing as the one before it. Another day of seeking out anything to distract himself from what his life had become.

The craving for blue birthday cake from the night before comes back full force as Nico steps out from the branches of the tree. His legs protest at the movement, they don't feel strong enough to support even his light weight. As he walks across the path, pulling his hood back over his greasy hair, Nico wonders whether it's actually the cake he wants or the thing that the cake reminds him of. Percy. Perfect fucking Percy could go through anything and still come out the other side with that adorable little smile of his plastered across his face.

**So that was my first attempt at fanfiction. It didn't turn out quite how I wanted, personally I think I made Nico too emo. Anyway, let me know what you think and whether I should continue or just leave it there. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

**Warnings: Eating disorder, self-harm, depression **

**Thank you for the reviews, the favourites and just for reading. **

**Bill – Thank you so much, that means a lot to me. I hope you like the continuation**

**AndromedaLuna – Thank you! Your review made me so happy. I'm glad you thought the emotions worked, I've never been too confident with them. The comment about the words, thank you so much for that. I'm glad you didn't think Nico was too emo I wanted him to come across as broken and hurting but not necessarily wallowing in self-pity. This chapter has a bit more action and a bit less emotional stuff. Let me know what you think.**

Food. The army of black dots laying siege on his vision tell him that right now eating is his first priority. He keeps walking, blinking a few times to try and clear his vision. Each step jars his aching limbs, Nico is surprised he hasn't fallen over yet. He's half expecting his legs to just give up at any moment and send him crashing down onto the damp grass. Nico stops for a moment to tighten the belt of the black skinny jeans he's wearing. They've been getting more worn and baggy by the day. Right now though it's the fact that they're cold and damp that is annoying. He reaches the path and blinks a couple of times not just for the sake of the spots, but because he's trying to work out where he is. Shrugging his shoulders, wincing as he does, Nico sets off down the path. It'll come back to him. It does. His dark eyes, trained on the floor to avoid the gaze of anyone who happened to cast a glance his way, catch sight of an abandoned magazine. Favourite, his ADHD brain informs him, with a U. England, he remembers. London, he's been in the city for three days now.

Stopping to cast a glance over a map, he curses in ancient Greek. He's on the wrong side of the park. He leans against the narrow stone wall supporting the map and scowls at it. His legs feel like jelly, the museum is going to have to wait. Besides, there's a cold shiver running through him that he has a sneaking suspicion isn't only to do with the weather. At the very least he needs coffee before he tackles any monsters. Leaving the park, Nico steps out onto the street, fingers curling in his pockets. He's very aware of the dull throbbing of last night's cuts. Walking in the shadows of mortal citizens of London as they start another normal day of their normal lives, Nico scowls. Sometimes, he thinks, things would have been much easier if he'd been a mortal. For one thing he'd almost certainly be dead by now. For another he'd almost certainly be in Asphodel with no recollection of who he had been. Bliss.

Much as he hates their very existence for how pathetic and out of place they make him feel, the one good thing about early morning commuters is that they're in a rush. So much of a rush they don't notice Nico as he steps into their shadows willing himself not to be seen. An almost skeletal hand slips from his pocket, fist unclenching, he pauses a moment as his breath almost stirs the fine hairs on the neck of the mortal in front of him. The mortal doesn't break stride, Nico isn't surprised. The hand slips into the jacket pocket and closes around the rough fabric of a wallet. The jacket twitches slightly, Nico steps sideways, pushing the stolen wallet into his own pocket. Crossing the street, weaving between cars, he sighs softly. He hates himself for sinking so low_. Look at yourself, Prince of the Underworld. Pickpocketing._ As a son of Hades he had access to millions of dollars' worth of precious gems, if only he could bring himself to go down there and pick up one or two to sell. It was times like this when he thought Hazel….he shuddered, remembering her words from the previous night. Hazel wasn't a safe topic to think about right now.

He steps over the threshold into a Costa coffee shop on the heels of several more mortals. Nico glances over his shoulder; he still has that sense that things weren't quite right. _Ha, what a joke. Understatement of the fucking century._ He flips open the stolen wallet and stares down at the contents; a couple of credit cards two ten pound notes and a whole lot of English coins blink bemusedly up at him. For a moment he considers keeping the credit cards, he knows he could get hold of the man's PIN number if he wanted to. Then again, Nico pushes the credit card back into its pocket, it's not like he usually needs money. It's just times like this, when he really did need to eat and it was a choice: pickpocketing or shop lifting. Since his ambrosia had run out, Nico had needed to eat more than he had been. It wasn't a change for the better either. The door opens and a gust of cold air chills him, right, warmth, that's what he wants.

Minutes later he's curled up in a soft brown chair in a corner of the room a gingerbread latte on the low round table in front of him and some kind of toasted egg roll – which he's told is an English muffin – sitting on a plate that's resting on his drawn up knees. Nico stares at it pensively trying to decide if it's actually worth eating or not. His stomach growls grumpily telling him that it is. If he didn't feel so hungry, Nico would ignore it. As it is, he starts picking at it slowly, squishing the bread into a little dough ball before putting it in his mouth. For a moment it sits on his tongue feeling alien after having not eaten since he'd had the last tiny square of ambrosia almost a week ago. He chews it slowly and swallows it. It tastes good. He dissects a bit more puts it in his mouth and closes his eyes for a moment. That it tastes nice makes him feel worse in a way, he blinks his eyes open and flicks his dark gaze over to the line of customers. That was something else he didn't want to think about.

It was said that all roads lead to Rome, well in Nico's case, all roads led to Tartarus. No matter which direction he turns his thoughts in, eventually they meander their way towards the edge of that pit. He glares at a mousy-haired young woman holding a pastry; she stops surreptitiously eyeing up the chair opposite him and looks elsewhere. Good. Nico can't be bothered to deal with mortals.

He puts the half-eaten muffin down on the table and pops the lid off his coffee. The hot, sweet, slightly spicy liquid warms him up from the inside out. He takes another sip, savouring it. Then he pops the lid back on, holds the warm cup between his palms and heads for the door. On the way out he manages to get pushed against the glass wall as a tall bespectacled man in top hat and clearly in need of a caffeine fix shoves him out of the door way. Nico scowls "I'm not part of the furniture you know." _Just a little too good at walking unseen_.

The man, who looks, and Nico does appreciate the irony, like he's just stepped out of the wrong half of the last century, turns back and gives Nico a hard stare. Mismatched eyes, Nico's brain informs him as he meets the stare coldly. This man though was apparently not deterred by the broken, black gaze. Instead he holds out his hand "my apologies, allow me to buy you a coffee to make up for my rudeness."

At that, Nico raises an eyebrow and holds up the cup in his hand "already got one thanks, I was just leaving." Unlike the man, whose bushy moustache is twitching in a very distracting way, Nico's expression remains as cold as ever. He steps past the guy without another thought and slips out of the door.

From behind, he's almost certain he hears the words "I'll see you later then _Nico_." His shoulders bunch and he picks up his pace. He must have just misheard; either that or he's hearing things. Nico can feel himself teetering on the edge of his mental Tartarus once again. Feeling full and _heavy _isn't helping. His foot is worryingly close to the edge of his mental Tartarus now; Nico scowls, brings his coffee to his lips and forces himself to look where he's going. He's heading in the direction of the museum. He'll take care of that particular problem when he gets there.

The clouds are so low he's half surprised Zeus hasn't struck him with a lightning bolt yet. Then again, with Olympus the other side of the Atlantic; hopefully Zeus would keep his thunderstorms to himself. Nico could do without being drenched. He steps back into the park and instantly wrinkles his nose. Joggers. Not just that, but blonde joggers in pink tracksuits complaining about the fact they were so unfit. If he didn't know better he'd have pegged them as children of Aphrodite. But even those demigods had enough battle experience not to need to go _jogging _to keep in shape. Really if Nico ever caught himself complaining about needing to do keep fit he'd probably top himself there and….wait; that's another no go area. His internal rant has carried him almost halfway across the park already. The pair of joggers guilty of sparking it are out of sight, although a few more have taken their place. Nico shakes his head_, mortals; they really don't know how good they've got it. _

He rounds a bend in the path and tosses his empty coffee cup into one of the little black bins lining the edge of the grass. Shoving his hands in his pockets, his thoughts return to the out-of-time man, Nico had definitely got a weird vibe off him. It wasn't just the top hat and burgundy bow-tie either, it was the eyes. There has been something niggling in the back of his mind, from the moment he saw the colours behind the glasses. Typically he can't put his finger on what it was. It was definitely something about the mismatched eyes though. Mud brown and moss green, he's sure he recognises them and that, when you're a demigod, is almost never a good thing.

When he reaches the road, Nico has to pay a bit more attention to where he's going, he checked the map, but this is still unfamiliar territory. Hood up, he wends his way through the streets towards the tall pillared building that looked like it could be a Roman temple. He walks up the steps, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. Just inside the doorway he pauses briefly to cast an eye over the map of the building. The Parthenon, Nico blinks and shrugs slightly, why not? After everything that had rested on the broad shoulders of the Athena Parthenos Nico can't help but be slightly curious about the other sculptures associated with that particular place. Walking quickly through the cavernous room he hesitates outside the door to the toilets. The hesitation only lasts a moment. He closes his eyes and waves his hand, manipulating the mist around the disabled toilet to make it appear out of use. He steps inside, the heavy door closes behind him and his lungs instantly constrict. The room has no windows and although it isn't as confined as the tiny cubicles that are his other option, it's still too small to be comfortable. Nico can feel the walls pressing in on him and the oxygen running out. He clenches his fists, it'll be over and done within a few minutes.

Nico drops to his knees, slowly he rolls up his sleeves, wincing as he dislodges the poorly tied bandages. Further up his arms, the raw, scabbed half-healed cuts trace out strange, patterns. Nico traces them with his eyes, they're blunt, brutal but they knit themselves together into pictures. He shakes his head and turns his attention to the toilet bowl. He needs to do this. There isn't another way, not for him. He knows full well what happens when you die, he knows it isn't an escape. Nico di Angelo doesn't want death, he wants to fade. Disappear into nothing the way the Great God Pan had.

Part of him knows that what he's doing doesn't make sense, but the part that's forcing his fingers down his throat until he gags is stronger.

A low growl issues from somewhere behind him, Nico barely notices until the door cracks open down the middle. He jerks round, wiping his vomit covered hand on his jeans. The man with the top hat is smirking down at him; those mismatched eyes glittering with some kind of sick pleasure. Before Nico has a chance to push himself unsteadily to his feet, something sharp and unpleasant sprouts from the man's suit. His body is morphing into something Nico recognises very well. Monsters, he glares as he pushes himself up and draws his sword, they really did have impeccable timing. "Hello Dr Thorn. Long time, no see." Trying to sound casual when his mouth tasted like bile before the fight had even _begun _didn't do a lot for Nico's confidence. Neither did the fact that his sword hand was trembling and he could feel the claustrophobic panic building up in his chest again.

The manticore's scorpion tail twitches, pointing straight at Nico "Dr Thorn? No, I don't think I've used that name." The monster shakes his head sadly; top hat still perched on his dark brown birds' nest of hair. Nico's eyes dart around the room, searching for shadows. "Not that it's important pathetic little son of Hades, where my brethren clearly failed, I will succeed." A sharp black spear head is launched from the tip of the manticore's tail. Nico sidesteps into the shadow to his left and rematerializes behind the monster. Slashing at the sting on the creature's tail, Nico mouth twists into a slight smirk at the howl of pain. The manticore's weapon of choice falls uselessly to the floor. Nico turns, pushes through the broken door and runs.

"You'll have to catch up with me first." Panting slightly, Nico runs through several rooms, hearing the anguished roars of the manticore behind him. Entering the Pantheon exhibition, he whirled round to face the charging manticore head on. He moves at the last second and the manticore smashes into what Nico considered to be a very flattering but not at all realistic sculpture of Mr D. The manticore, shaking bits of rubble from his top hat, turns and narrows his heterochromatic eyes at Nico.

Then he gives a low snort of laughter and flicks his bleeding tail. "You know, I've never been a fan of long range weapons. I prefer hand to hand combat." He's mouth splits into a grin as he extends his lions paws, five long blades sprouting from the tip of each.

Nico circles him, his black sword clutched in his icy hand. "That makes two of us."

The manticore lunges, Nico blocks but has to duck and roll to get away from the second swinging paw. It catches his shoulder and rips his jacket open, leaving a trail of red. "Delicious." The manticore licks his lips "it's been suck a long time since I tasted fresh demigod."

"That's obvious if you think I'd make a nice snack, I've been told I taste worse than a rotting corpse." Nico parries another swing of the manticore's claws and tries to make a lunge for the soft underbelly. The manticore growls and swipes at him, sending Nico tumbling into a glass display cabinet featuring random bits of pottery. His stygian iron sword is sent spinning across the floor to the other side of the room. What Nico wouldn't give for a weapon as convenient as riptide.

"You are pathetically puny and I do tend to prefer female demigods t'is true, but you're just the appetiser." Nico scrambles backwards as the manticore advances. "Aphrodite girls are positively delectable." The manticore's expression took on a dreamy quality "so sweet, they simply melted in my mouth."

Taking advantage of the monsters distraction, Nico makes a dash for it across the room, one hand pressed to his still bleeding shoulder. He stumbles, he hadn't accounted for how much being thrown across a stone floor hurt. The manticore turns, another laugh on his now moist lips.

"Really you don't stand a chance. You know it took six demigods to take me down last time? I suppose that's what happens when you devour five Aphrodite girls in a matter of months." He's poised above Nico, Nico reaches for the debris from the smashed statue and throws it into the manticore's incessantly babbling mouth. To his relief, the creature steps back spluttering. Nico reaches his sword and stands back up.

"So, five Aphrodite girls then, when was that?" His back and shoulders are starting to ache now; he needs some time to work out a strategy. Preferably one that doesn't require him to hold his sword off the ground for too long.

"Oh yes, not far from here you know. White chapel. I suppose the Heart of the West has moved since then though. Pity. Olympus used to be just above Buckingham Palace." As he speaks, the manticore slashes at Nico, who continues to dodge, and parry.

"Right." He pants "when was that? The eighteen hundreds?" Nico finds himself backed into a corner, but he doesn't try to move, he has half an idea of what he wants to do now. Right now that is going to have to do, if this goes on much longer he won't have the energy to do anything and he will end up being the disappointing snack of a hungry monster.

The manticore rolls his eyes "of course. White chapel murders? Eighteen eighty eight. They used to call me Jack."

Letting his eyes widen, trying to force an expression of surprise onto his naturally apathetic face, Nico pulls his body into the shadowy corner trying to concentrate on two things at once. "As in the ripper?"

A mechanical grin spreads across the manticore's face "oh yes. Lucky for you I'm hungry, I'll make it quick." He makes to jab one claw through Nico's chest.

Nico pulls himself backwards through the shadows just a second too late. More blood loss, just wonderful. He rematerializes, black spots parading in front of his vision, directly beneath the manticore. Jabbing upwards, too tired to make any of witty comments bouncing around his brain out loud, Nico buries his black blade into the depths of the manticore's fur. Jack dissolves into dust with a frustrated yell and Nico breathes a sigh of relief.

Very slowly he drags his battered body across the floor and props himself up against the wall. His hands are shaking; he crosses his arms over his chest and hides them under his armpits. The adrenaline dissipates quickly and a sickening wave of vertigo washes over him. Nico rests his head on his knees and closes his eyes, fighting the urge to throw up. His knee caps dig into his eyeballs, but the pressure isn't a bad thing. Having his spine curved in such a manner only serves to remind him of the cuts on both his chest and shoulder. Not just that, but his whole body aches. He pushes his hands into his jacket pockets slowly; even such a small movement sends a jarring pain running through his bones. He rummages around on the off chance he still has ambrosia. He knows he doesn't. His jacket pockets expand to hold just about anything, an idea he'd got Leo to help him with on board the Argo II, if he wants something all he has to do is reach for it. Nothing, not even a crumb meets his fingertips.

Sighing in defeat he stays as he is curled up in a room he half belongs in. It is strange though, seeing the ruins of the reality he lives. The moments drag on, Nico lifts his head gingerly and leans back to give himself some support. He looks down at the scratches on his chest, they're painful and already surrounded by bruising, but at least they're not deep. He's seen much worse.

Pushing a thin hand back into his pocket, he withdraws an old and very battered scrap book. After pulling out a motley collection of pencils, he leans back against the wall and tries to make himself somewhat comfortable. He flips through the scrap book and pauses, one of the sketches, something that vaguely resembled a torch, is almost identical to the pattern of scars on his right forearm. Nico cautiously rolls back his sleeve, wincing as he disturbs the bandages and looks down at the mess he's made of his skin. It's definitely there though, a mirror image of what he'd drawn. He rolls the sleeve down again and his forehead puckers into a frown and he squints down trying to decipher his own slanted scrawl. Power symbols, Hecate.

Even the goddess' name sends an involuntary shudder running through him. Clytius, bane of Hecate, wielder of magic. In his mind, the pit of Tartarus rumbles, vapours rise to the surface, memories he wishes he didn't have. Nico's fists clench, he grabs an acceptably sharpened pencil and adds to the page the words _mirror image?_ Staring blankly at it, he feels the vapours in his mind start to take shape. He can feel burning hot iron pressing into his back, hear his own screams and the screams of everyone he'd let die. Nico grits his teeth so hard he's surprised they don't shatter. "It's over." His voice spits out the words, he flips to a clean page in his sketch book and casts a glance around the deserted room.

Having settled on the sculpted horses hanging from the wall, Nico's attention goes into capturing them. As his pencil glides over the paper leaving faint sketch lines, both the screams and the accompanying sense of utter despair begin to dwindle. Slowly they are absorbed back into his mental Tartarus.

It's a strange quirk of Nico's ADHD, but he's always had the ability to hyper focus on a particular interest. For the last couple of years it's been drawing. The scrap book he's drawing in harks back to an older obsession, the battle plans and traced pictures of the Mythomagic gods have since been torn out.

Looking up at the sculpture, Nico frowns and tilts his head slightly; he looks back down at his sketch and makes a few alterations. He has to hand it to whatever mortal or demigod had created it, the sculpture is an impressive work of art. As he sketches, Nico feels safe enough to let his mind wander, not too far, but a little bit. The mirror image symbols are intriguing. He tries to think of them as just that, a source of intrigue, something to be looked at critically. Pausing in his sketching, Nico pulls his knife out of his pocket and sharpens his pencil, glancing towards the door as he does. He's assuming the room is being protected by Mist; otherwise he's sure he'd be swamped by mortals by now.

Nico returns to his drawing, beginning to add the shading and finer details. Those symbols though, there was something strange about them and there had to be a reason he was subconsciously etching them into his flesh. As that thought crosses his mind, Nico pulls his attention back to the picture. Dangerous waters, he doesn't want to go there. It's as he's adding depth to the horse's face - trying to capture the somewhat pained look as it stares back over its shoulder - that Nico feels a glimmer of something he'd almost forgotten existed. Hope.

Frowning from the picture to the sculpture, Nico prods the feeling warily. The symbols, Nico lightens up on the prodding for fear of where this is going, there was a possibility that they held the key. Maybe if he could work out what they meant there was a chance, at that word the glimmer of hope is snuffed out, no, he can't put this right. Too much has happened. Still he is intrigued by the symbols, besides; he knows there is a much higher chance that the symbols were a sign of something bad. He isn't about to let the rest of the world suffer because of his weakness. Not this time.

The thought that crops up next is second only to the vapours that arose from Tartarus. He needs to be back in America. Looking down at his drawing, Nico embellishes the shadows around the horse's eyes, giving it a more tortured expression that the sculpture depicted. America is the Heart of the West, if he's going to find out anything he'll find it out there. The finality of the conclusion hits Nico like a battering ram to the stomach. He hasn't been avoiding America completely, but whenever he's there, he steers as far from anything linked to Olympus as he can.

Pensively, he returns the scrap book and pencils to his pocket and gets shakily to his feet. Again the black spots threaten to overpower his vision. Nico pushes his hands into his pockets and clenches his fists. If he's going to shadow travel across the Atlantic, he's going to need an energy boost. Drawing in a calming breath, he walks out of the room, lips twitching slightly as he passes a sign informing him that the exhibition he's just left was supposed to be closed to the public. Not the Mist after all.

Moments later he's fishing in the stolen wallet and handing over the change for a double espresso. Emptying two packets of sugar into it Nico doesn't even bother to sit down before downing it. Figuring that he might as well spend the rest of the cash before he ditches the wallet, Nico gets a second espresso. This time he does sit down, to give the caffeine and sugar a chance to kick in. Surreptitiously pushing the wallet down the side of the chair, he gives a quick nod to the brunette behind the counter and leaves. The moment he's out of sight, Nico grits his teeth and fixes his mind on a patch of trees in Central Park he's fairly sure will be deserted. Stepping into the shadows, he leaves the grim London evening behind him.

What awaits, as he tumbles from the shadows some way away from where he intended isn't much better. He doesn't even have the energy to sit up, it takes all he's got just to prop his head up and try to work out where he is. In the distance he can make out a set of iron wrought gates glinting in the weak winter sun. Then his eyes fall shut and he slips into an unusually dreamless sleep.

He blinks his eyes open tiredly to find that darkness has settled over the park and that every bone, muscle, tendon and ligament in his body ached. Ache as though they have been individually strapped to some kind of wrack-like torture device and stretched beyond endurance. His head spun as he sat up, telling him he won't be moving anywhere anytime soon.

"Good thing too brother, I really did want to finish that chat." Nico shook his head, trying to crawl away. The spectral image of Hazel just laughed softly. "Come on Nico, I'm not the one who hurts people. I didn't betray Olympus even in the homeland of Alcyoneus. Even when my own mother was corrupted."

Nico buries his face in his arms and shakes his head "you're not Hazel. You're not real." At which his sister's ghost only laughs.

"That's what you'd like to believe Nico. That I'm at peace, with Frank in Elysium. That all the pain you caused is over that we can all just let it go."

Shaking his head, Nico chokes out a whispered "I don't deserve forgiveness. But you si…Hazel, you deserve peace."

Again the cold touch brushes his arm, making his cuts sting all the more. "That's just it though; I can't be at peace Nico. Not until I understand how you could do that to us all. To me. What happened to you Nico? What did Tartarus feel like; I know you didn't tell me the truth before. Just more lies. Like the lies you fed me when you said you cared."

From the darkness of his mental Tartarus, the vapours are rising faster than ever. Nico clenches his fists, shakes his head, pleads even, but they don't stop. The memories break over him; Nico screams and falls forwards, tearing at his face and hair as though he can rip the feelings and the memories out.


End file.
